


Private Growth in the Face of... Stuff

by deliriumbubbles



Series: Wicked Games [2]
Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 15:33:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13593072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliriumbubbles/pseuds/deliriumbubbles
Summary: After the party at Hatred’s and debriefing the boys, Brock and Rusty fight over what went down at the party. Or at least, what Rusty knows about. They send the boys to bed, and Brock sets to work relieving some tension.





	Private Growth in the Face of... Stuff

Well, that whole situation had been _ass_. Brock rubbed his forehead, avoiding Rusty’s gaze as Hank waved his hands around excitedly and chattered about their entirely too perilous adventure in unskilled babysitting.

“And then we were running through the garden and there was this whoop whoop whoop sound like Pacman!”

“Only it wasn’t Pacman! The little guys in the little cocoons were tracking Gary and the tall guy through their _suits_!” Dean continued, so excited his voice cracked.

“So we took all our clothes off!” Hank added with a huge grin.

“You _what_?” Rusty slammed his palms on the table.

Brock ran his hand back over his hair. “Re _lax_ , Doc. They made it out fine.”

“The Monarch’s men got my sixteen-year-olds _naked_ ,” Rusty snapped.

“And I’d be worried about that with Hatred, but not with those Comic Con rejects. Hell, we’re on a first name basis with a couple of ‘em.”

Rusty spun around and pointed at Brock. “This is what happens when you walk right into their lairs to play party games. I _knew_ we should’ve just left.”

Brock made a noise deep in his throat and rolled his eyes. “Definitely shouldn’t’ve just left the boys by themselves!”

“Well, which is it, Brock? Do these people have a code that makes us all ‘ _safe_?’” Rusty threw his hands up in air quotes. “Or are they professional assholes who we can expect _to act like assholes_?”

Brock ground his teeth together and stared Rusty down. It was a hell of a question, especially after tonight. Especially after Brock had realized he’d been _wrong_ that Guild rules would keep them all safe. Someone, probably Hatred or one of the other couple dozen villains there had slapped a miniature explosive on Rusty’s back. If they hadn’t started fooling around, Brock might not have been able to disable it enough for the Jacuzzi water to seep in and cause the explosive to fail.

Definitely couldn’t just remove one of those things once they’d been placed. Automatic explosion. Right at the base of the Doc’s _spine_. Best case scenario there if Brock hadn’t found it: Rusty would’ve been paralyzed. Worst case…

“Don’t fight!” Dean wailed suddenly. “I can’t take you yelling at each other like this!”

Perching his hands on his hips, Rusty turned back to the boys. “Get up to your rooms. It’s been a long night, and you two have school.”

“You’re just gonna fight when we’re gone, aren’t’cha?” Hank stepped closer to his brother.

“Your bodyguard and I don’t fight, Hank. We _discuss_ what to do with your back-talking, sassy little butts. Now go to _bed_ ,” Rusty ordered, pointing toward the stairs.

Dean hesitated, looking like he wanted to stay and stand between them. For a moment, irrationally, Brock wanted the boy to stay. For all of them to sit together with some cocoa and decompress from the night. But Hank touched Dean’s shoulder, and the physical reassurance from his brother unstuck Dean from his spot by the table. The two of them hustled upstairs, with a few fretful glances back.

“Doc…” Brock said in a hushed tone once the boys were out of sight.

Rusty held up a hand, then turned and walked out of the room.

Was he really that pissed? Nah, he was just riled because something might’ve happened to the boys. If anyone needed a hot cup of cocoa at times like this it was the Doc, but he hardly ever asked for that. He’d order Brock to clean up a mess, like he was a janitor or something, or grumpily suggest he lay out some new dick threatening them, but he hardly ever wanted to just sit and talk out the events of their day. Both a blessing and a curse, really. The man could babble on endlessly, if the mood suited him, but Brock couldn’t remember a single “discussion” they’d had about how to handle the boys.

Maybe they oughta have one. But not tonight.

Brock followed Rusty up to his room. His steps fell soft through sheer force of training, and he moved into position by the doorway, where Rusty was visible. He sat slumped on his bed as shrugged off his suit jacket and frowned down at the carpet.

“You’re there, aren’t you, Brock?” Rusty asked suddenly.

Brock emerged through the doorway and crossed his arms as he leaned back against the wall. “You heard me? Must be slippin’.”

“No, I just guessed.”

Right. So what now? Brock could fight off mummies and pirates, Guild wasps and a whole rainbow of spandex-clad henchmen. He’d taken care of everything this crazy world of heroes and villains had thrown at the Ventures. But dealing with the Doc in these quiet moments was something Brock had never felt remotely prepared for.

“Look, if you’re still mad about the boys-“

“I’m not.”

Of course. Brock knew Doc wasn’t mad. He just didn’t like the uncomfortable silence.

“Maybe, y’should be.”

“Mad at _what_? You? Me? The henchmen? The Archs? It doesn’t _matter_. None of it matters.”

Brock sighed and looked out the window. Because of the clones. Because they could bring them back.

“We could lock them up here for the rest of their lives, you know.” Rusty was slumped over, his back like a comma, and he took off his glasses and began to clean them. “And I _guarantee_ you some loon in spandex would find a way to kill them, or worse, traumatize them both so badly they fail to function on a daily basis.”

He sighed and waved his hand. “I could get more jobs, amp up security. We’d just have more enemies at our door wanting to kill us for, what, bragging rights, I suppose. I mean, we get this new guy, and I couldn’t say whether he’d be better or worse than the Monarch, even with the shot to the gut, but as it turns out, the Guild assigned me a _pedophile._ I have two teenage boys, and the Guild gave me a _fucking pedophile_.”

He paused and put his glasses back on. “It’s like a never-ending turn on the teacups at Brisbyland. You throw up, and it just keeps going. Your vomit hits you in the face, and it keeps going. The centrifugal force warps your body on a structural level, and it keeps going.”

Brock clicked his tongue. “Shit, Doc.”

“And it’s not like we can just opt out of this life.” Rusty rolled his shoulders and leaned back on his palms.

It would’ve been nice if the Doc had meant that “we” to include himself, the boys, and Brock. It was the Doc and the boys first, always. Did he ever think of Brock as part of the family? Even with what they did together sometimes? He knew the boys did, but Rusty was another matter. The man was always so detached; it was hard to tell how much he cared about anything, even the boys.

Granted, Brock knew. He’d been in this too long, watched Rusty weather the loss of his children too many times, watched him try to escape his life in one way or another. No agent could be that dense, even if they hadn’t been there for almost those boys’ entire lives.

Tonight was an outlier. On another night, Rusty would crack a joke about the boys being disposable, pop a few pills, drink some cooking sherry, and fall asleep on the sofa.

“No. You _can’t_ just opt out.” Brock shut the door behind him and moved to the bed.

Rusty’s eyes drifted down Brock’s chest. He folded his hands in his lap. “I didn’t mean I was _planning_ to-“

“I know y’didn’t.”

Brock took both of his hands in one of his own. Rusty’s brows knit together, and he gave a small sigh. Brock moved his other hand over Rusty’s shoulder and down his back. Rusty shuddered slightly.

“We didn’t do so good tonight,” Brock admitted as he pulled Rusty closer. “We’ll get it next time.”

“R-right,” Rusty murmured, looking up over the frames of his glasses.

With practiced ease, Brock guided Rusty back onto the bed and began unbuttoning Rusty’s pants for the second time that night.

Brock lowered his voice to a husky whisper: “I think I promised you something when we got home…”

“It’s been a couple of hours since then. I’m not exactly still-“

Brock stroked his fingers over the small bulge in Rusty’s underwear. “Ways of fixin’ that.”

“Well, you’re always good at that part.” A small grin tugged at the corner of Rusty’s mouth.

He was like a long, spindly reed in Brock’s arms. Pliant, weathered. Something that would bend but rarely break. Every time he moved his calloused hands over that soft flesh, Brock felt the scars left by a world determined to handle Rusty roughly. He could feel in the man’s movements the brunt of violence that had shaped him at his core. And still, he was tougher than he had any right to be.

As both of them grew thick, Rusty arched his back as though his body were starving for touch. Brock, grunting softly, buried his face between Rusty’s legs as the first objective in keeping his promise from earlier. Although striving to keep quiet, little mewling noises escaped Rusty’s lips, and he pressed the back of his arm to his lips to restrain the sound.

Emboldened, Brock hummed a bit, taking in every sparse inch and massaging his fingertips along the tender, vulnerable flesh below as he made the man beneath him quiver. Brock had always been a man who knew a job well done, and nothing said he was doing his job like reducing someone to a mess of noises and squirming.

When the noises and squirming culminated in gasping and toe curling, Brock drank _deep_.

Satisfaction settling into his chest, he watched Rusty melt back against the bed and rubbed a hand over the soft fabric of his sweater. He smiled as Rusty’s tense forehead went smooth, and his hand reached for Brock’s. Their fingertips touched, brushing against one another with an unwarranted shyness. Brock’s blood thundered in his ears, and he knew that Rusty’s soft panting betrayed the same surging heart and fluttering excitement in his stomach.

He’d been staring into Rusty’s eyes a bit too long. Caught by that weary blue-gray looking back at him with a budding warmth. Brock rose quickly and flipped Rusty onto his stomach.

Rusty made a noise of protest and a bit of a laugh. “The lube’s in the nightstand. And you’d better use enough this time, you _horse_.”

Brock fought a smile, but did as he was asked. The least he could do was make sure the little guy could walk in the morning.

Though, it was gratifying, a little, to see the effect he had on the Doc.

Brock returned, bottle in hand, and gripped Rusty’s hips. He bit his lip, ran his hands up and down Rusty’s sides, and stripped the sweater from his back. Rusty peered over his shoulder, arching a brow mischievously.

God, that fucking _look_. Brock set the bottle down for a moment and moved his thumbs up the muscles of Rusty’s back in a long, slow stroke. Rusty groaned and stretched his arms in front of him. Brock moved his hands carefully, avoiding the red spot where the explosive had adhered. For a brief moment, Brock considered telling Rusty how close they’d come tonight…

Instead he lifted Rusty up, bowed his head to the back of Rusty’s neck, and drew in his scent. He’d kept Rusty safe, for now. The boys were safe, for now. Brock stroked one hand along Rusty’s stomach and let himself feel the man’s breathing.

“You lost back there?”

“Knock it off,” Brock grumbled.

Rusty’s laugh was not unlike a cackle. Brock had the urge to push his head into the bedspread. Instead, he slicked up two fingers and set about making Rusty squirm again.

Squirming, writhing, and then after quite a few fingers and a lot of lube, thrusting and gasping. Brock’s girth eased inside Rusty carefully, and Brock groaned, low and loud. Rusty was always so tight. This part could never be the frenzy Brock was used to, but in some ways, the slow rolling of his hips, the tentative gasps, the way Rusty shuddered just a little in his arms while still trusting Brock not to hurt him, even as Brock’s erection stretched him to capacity…

It was hotter and sweeter than Brock had ever expected.

Brock came, as always, with a restrained grunt. He cleaned them off with some of the wet wipes that the Doc had nearby at all times. Then, he lay beside Rusty, who had removed his glasses and lay on his side in a near delirious state. He’d come again before Brock had finished. Brock was a bit proud of that, especially knowing that no other partner could quite do it for the Doc. It was always too much or too little to really get him there in a way that was really pleasurable.

But Brock Samson was nothing if not a man of skills. He could be as subtle as a grenade, at times, but he could handle nuance if he really had to.

Brock reclined against the pillows on Rusty’s bed. He never stayed too long after, but the moment, quiet as it was, was comfortable. He folded his hands behind his head, thinking how he would like a cigarette, even if Rusty would never allow him to light up in his room. The scent would linger, for starters. Smoke did more than anything else. The boys would notice. It would cause problems. Instead, he rolled his head to the side and watched Rusty breathing.

Just when Brock was feeling drowsy, and he’d been sure Rusty was sleeping, the man muttered:

“Brock?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you staying?”

The answer was no. It _had_ to be no. Brock had to check security for the compound, and being caught sleeping naked together would be much more damning than the smell of cigarettes.

“You want me to?” Brock found himself saying.

Rusty looked up, frowning a little as he squinted. Brock smiled fondly. Blind as a bat.

“Nah, I gotta go.” Brock launched himself from the bed and went to the nightstand, where he deposited the lube and pulled out a bit of ointment that the Doc kept nearby for his many injuries of varying severity. He put a little on his hand and then walked around behind him.

Rusty perked up. “Oh, whoa. Too soon!”

“You’ve got a… uh, scrape or somethin’,” Brock said, rubbing the ointment to the red spot. It was tender, but just lightly burned. Of course, Rusty wouldn’t have noticed much in that hot water.

Brock didn’t know who to thank that Rusty had come away with such a small mark from this night. Instead, he’d remember the rubber bullet in his gut, the small spat they’d had in front of the boys, and Brock fucking him boneless.

“Thanks, Brock.”

“See you in the mornin’, Doc.”

Brock cast a glance back at Rusty before leaving the room. He wasn’t an entirely unreflective man. He could sense danger in all off its forms. _This_ was dangerous, even if he didn’t want to admit it. And he didn’t want to quit it.

Pretty soon, he might have to, though. Or he’d find himself in Rusty’s bed permanently, with all the fallout that would entail.


End file.
